


open every door

by Doranwen



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Long Lost/Secret Relatives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 04:37:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16151735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doranwen/pseuds/Doranwen
Summary: Aragorn realizes the true nature of the relationship between Faramir and himself.





	open every door

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueteak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueteak/gifts).



> I had to borrow a lot from the books for background for this fic, but I also tweaked things considerably, of course. (The movies never deal with much of this area of the history anyway so it's a fairly open book… pun not intended.) Nonconsensual infidelity was rather a necessary element for setting up this trope, I'm afraid, so readers who would be squicked by this, beware. Otherwise, proceed—and hopefully enjoy this alternate possibility for Aragorn and Faramir's relationship…

Becoming King of Gondor would have been infinitely more difficult if Aragorn hadn't been fortunate to have such a good Steward, he thinks. He has felt affection for the younger man the moment Faramir opened his eyes and called him 'king'. Having the Steward's unwavering support silences the voices of any critics which might arise. He may know Gondor, or Gondor as she was a few decades ago, but few remember a young popular captain named Thorongil, and Aragorn is strangely loath to remind them. The younger generation have never heard that name, anyway. But they all love Faramir, and if Faramir is his, they will follow him without question.

Faramir's presence is a balm that soothes some of the pain he feels at the loss of his dearest friend. And while his elven "brothers" will not sail for many years, perhaps till after his death, they are infrequent visitors to Gondor, preferring to hunt orcs in the wild lands much of the time. Faramir is the younger brother he never had, he decides. Or, perhaps, a son. The thought pierces him like an arrow, and he remembers…

* * *

_Aragorn was not fond of the parties of the nobility. He had been well-trained to move in the highest of circles, and had much practice in acting the subservient military officer, but Gondor was rife with political undercurrents that he found almost distasteful. He found himself missing the celebrations at King Thengel's court in Rohan; he had grown to appreciate the Rohirric straightforward honesty, more so after experiencing the way Gondorians hid their meanings in layers of obfuscation._

_Another noble came up to him to congratulate his role in the minor military victory from the past month; he accepted the praise with the correct amount of humility and deference to his superiors, and made his excuse to exit the building for some fresh air. The gardens were lovely as always, and the evening air was refreshing but not unduly cold yet. He wandered over to the wall and glanced out over the city and the plains beyond._

_He suddenly became aware that he was not alone, and glanced around to see a figure seated on the stone bench. Bushes planted behind it shielded the bench from the eyesight of anyone leaving the house. Aragorn relaxed when he recognized the figure as a woman. "Good evening, my lady," he offered._

_"Good evening, Captain," came the answer, with a slight tremor._

_The voice betrayed her identity as Denethor's wife, the Lady Finduilas. Aragorn studied her face as closely as he could in the moonlight, and thought he could make out the faint traces of tears. "Is something wrong?" he asked her gently._

_The silence answering his question made it seem as if she had not heard him. When she spoke, her reply at first had little to do with what he had asked. "This garden faces southwest. Did you know that, Captain Thorongil?"_

_He was only mildly surprised that she remembered his name; their introduction was brief and several weeks before, but as the wife of the highest-ranking lord in Gondor, she would be expected to know everyone. "I had not thought much about it, but you are correct."_

_"A bird flying in that direction long enough would reach Dol Amroth. The air there smells of the sea, and you can hear the waves lapping at the beaches."_

_Aragorn was no stranger to homesickness, but had learned early on that Rivendell would not be his home forever. Should he succeed in reuniting the two kingdoms as he hoped, but did not know how, Gondor would be his. (He admitted privately to himself that some aspects of it would take a great deal of adjustment.) Most people, though, were not as unsettled as he, and some flowers he knew did not transplant well. "You miss your home greatly, my lady?"_

_"I have not seen it since I married. My brother Imrahil comes to visit me once in a while, but…" She rubbed tears away from her face. "I'm sorry for sharing all of this, Captain. I received word today that my mother is ill, and I was with my son ever since."_

_Aragorn remembered young Boromir; an active child still delighting in his newfound ability to walk. "Are you not able to travel to be with her?" he asked, puzzled; she seemed perfectly fit for traveling._

_"My lord fears for my safety, and will not permit me to travel without a full escort, which he cannot spare as every man is needed for protecting our borders." The manner at which she recited the excuse told Aragorn much of her feelings regarding it._

_"I'm sorry, my lady," he told her a little helplessly._

_"Do you miss your home?" she asked._

_He was always guarded whenever asked about his home, but all questions before had been where and who. No one had ever asked this. "A little. Mostly I miss the people."_

_She seemed to accept his answer, and they lapsed into silence, two lonely refugees from the party still going on inside._

* * *

Aragorn catches Faramir looking at him speculatively the next day, but waits for the younger man to speak.

"My uncle mentioned something odd in a letter I received this morning," Faramir finally begins. "He said you used to go by the name Thorongil."

Aragorn smiles. He wondered how long that might take to arise. "He is correct."

"When were you in Gondor before?" Faramir's face is carefully schooled as always, with only hints of his puzzlement and astonishment escaping the mask.

"Many years ago, when your grandfather was Steward. Imrahil was a young man at the time; he is only about twenty years younger than I am."

Faramir's eyes flicker a little, and Aragorn guesses that he had not realized just how old his king truly was. "Did you know my mother?" Faramir asks next.

The question takes Aragorn by surprise. He had known Finduilas had not lived as long as she should have, but her death must have been only a few years after he left, for Faramir to ask the question with that slight tone of wistfulness. "I did." He hopes Faramir will be satisfied at that; how well Aragorn knew her was a secret he promised himself would go to his grave…

* * *

_"What is the latest news for me?" Aragorn asked his usual informant. The old man, ostensibly a seller of books in the marketplace, had ears in every town in Gondor, it seemed. Aragorn had paid handsomely from his own coin to ensure that those ears funneled information his way and nowhere else._

_"Only two things today. Lord Berion is seeing a mistress in the Fourth Circle, and Lady Haradrendis, wife of Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth, has died of an illness."_

_Aragorn nodded, slipping a coin under the book he had been 'browsing' and handing it back to the bookseller. His mind cast back to the conversation at the party a few nights before. It took little work to imagine how Lady Finduilas would have reacted. He quickly returned to his quarters and found paper and writing supplies. He debated over it for some time, but finally wrote: "I am truly sorry for your loss. —Captain Thorongil"_

_The next part was the trickiest. Denethor might be away from Minas Tirith for the next few days inspecting some of the defenses of the realm, but Aragorn was not foolish enough to think that he didn't have his own set of eyes and ears on anyone he deemed suspicious. (It had taken less than a month for Denethor to become suspicious of Aragorn, though the latter had made sure to give the Steward's son nothing to base his suspicions on other than success.) Getting his note to Finduilas would take some careful planning._

_He counted himself fortunate when he spotted her servant in the markets only an hour later. He contrived to bump into her 'accidentally' and slipped the note into her hands with a whispered plea to take it to the lady without speaking of it. The tiny nod of assent relieved his concerns, and he went on with his day._

_When he arrived at his quarters that evening, he was surprised to see a young boy standing outside._

_"Captain Thorongil?" the boy asked._

_"I am he," Aragorn said. "What is it, lad?"_

_"This is for you, sir," said the boy, handing over a slip of paper._

_The lad dashed off as Aragorn opened it up—and he realized why as soon as he laid eyes on the script. It was a set of instructions to a set of tunnels that would take him from the Sixth to the Seventh Circle—without going anywhere near the gate. The note was unsigned, but one sniff of the paper gave him a whiff of perfume, and he **knew**. He held his breath as he glanced around suddenly, checking his surroundings for anyone who might be watching. The air slipped out of his lungs slowly as he spotted no one. He read the note in his quarters again, once, twice, three times, until he was certain he had the words fixed in his memory. He lit a fire in his fireplace long enough to watch the paper burn to ashes, then dressed for a visit to one of his wounded soldiers in the Houses of Healing._

_Aragorn left the Houses of Healing in good spirits. Maethon was recovering nicely from the arrow-wound to his shoulder, and he had hope of regaining much of his sword-arm. Aragorn bade the healers a good-night and whistled a low tune as he walked out, watching out of the corners of his eyes for any observers. When he was satisfied that no one was watching him, he slipped into an alley and crept along to the portion of the wall in the instructions. The handle to pull open the tunnel was cleverly disguised as a spur of the stone, and the layer of dust and dirt on it made Aragorn wonder when was the last time it had been used. Was Denethor even aware of this route? If not, how had Finduilas learned of it? He added those questions to the others he wanted to ask, and lit the candle he had hidden on him. The tunnel smelled slightly musty, but the candle did not flicker, and the air was not particularly foul._

_The tunnel took him down a long passageway, doubling back once, and then snaking up a long flight of stairs. He emerged in an alley by a garden wall. Now that he knew what to look for, he inspected the bottom of the wall for the telltale spur. Sure enough, there was another one, and he pulled it open, stepping through into what had to be the Steward's own garden. The evening light had turned to dusk, which relieved any fears of being spotted by servants. The garden seemed empty at first, until he saw her sitting on the bench, partially hidden by a rose bush. Her head was bowed and her shoulders slumped._

_Aragorn made his way over to her. He could tell the moment she realized he was there, by the way her body suddenly tensed, freezing in place. He settled himself on the bench next to her and waited._

_"You came," she said, almost brokenly, a note of unexpected hope in her voice._

_"You shouldn't be alone right now," he told her. He was no expert in matters of the spirit, but the dispirited way she had spoken the other night of her life alarmed him in conjunction with the news of her mother's passing. She had a young son who needed her; Boromir was far too little to be parted from her forever. And while he couldn't say that Denethor needed her as well, her presence almost certainly had a mollifying effect on the Steward-to-be, something the other man could greatly use, Aragorn felt._

_Finduilas was silent for a little bit, then turned to look at him. "I never got to say goodbye," she said, tears coloring her voice. Her hand reached out and bumped his._

_Aragorn took it, feeling every thud of his heart a little more. He should leave, should go back down the tunnel, back to his own quarters… but he could not leave her in her anguish. He pressed his fingers more firmly around her palm, smoothing his thumb across the back of her hand. He had to say something, though. "Your husband—" he began._

_"—Thinks of me as a brood mare," Finduilas interrupted, bitterly. She stared away from him as she spoke. "A showpiece, something to display for the other nobles. All he wants is for me to look pretty and give him sons." She wiped her tears from her cheek with her free hand and glanced back at him. "I'm sorry, Captain, I never thought to ask if there was someone…"_

_Aragorn thought of Arwen now and then, but he had no promises, and there was the matter of Elrond's disapproval. He looked at Finduilas in the moonlight, and thought of the rumor of elven blood in the lineage of Dol Amroth. He was inclined to believe it—with her dark hair and natural beauty, she reminded him more than a little of Arwen, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to comfort her in every way. "No, there's no one," he said. It wasn't a lie; if and when he ever saw Arwen again, they could work out what they were to each other. But right now, here, he had no one waiting for him, and a beautiful woman in front of him who needed to feel cared for._

_He squeezed her hand and released it, lifting his fingers up to brush the hair by her cheek. His arm paused mid-air. "Are you certain?" he asked her. His heart pounded in his chest with anxious anticipation._

_"Yes," she breathed out, leaning forward._

_He met her lips halfway in a kiss._

* * *

Now he is the one watching Faramir strangely, and he knows the younger man has picked up on it. After a few odd glances in between working out the next moves in a set of trade negotiations with Umbar, he decides he must say something. "You have something of your mother's looks," he says.

Faramir nods. "I have her eyes, and my hair is much like her grandmother's was. My nose and mouth have always been a bit of a mystery, though."

Aragorn can see it now; it's a wonder Denethor never did. But perhaps subconsciously he knew; it would explain some of his behavior towards his younger son. Aragorn takes a deep breath; to break the silence and secrets of more than forty years is not something he can do lightly, but it is time Faramir knew the truth. "I believe that's because those features resemble your father's." He holds Faramir's eyes with his own, speaking the words with such solemnity that Faramir cannot help but sense the import of them.

Faramir looks at him with confusion—his nose isn't anything like Denethor's was, and they both know it—but slowly the bewilderment is replaced by questioning. "Are you saying…" he trails off, clearly unable to voice the rest of the sentence.

Aragorn chooses his words carefully. "I left for other parts of Middle-earth before I knew of your existence. It was only one night, but… I believe so." He waits for Faramir to condemn him for his indiscretion, to punish him for being weak, even for just one night.

But Faramir's expression transforms from questioning to hope as Aragorn speaks, and a genuine smile breaks across his face as he listens. For a long moment after Aragorn finishes, Faramir stares at him with wonder. Then, "My father," he says, joy spilling out through his words.

Aragorn cannot help but wrap his arms around his son—his **son** —and revel in the feeling. He does not know yet how he will broach this to Arwen, nor who—if anyone else—should know, but right now, in this moment, it is enough. "My son," he whispers, and feels Faramir's arms all the tighter.

**Author's Note:**

> As far as I know, the builders of Minas Tirith never put in such tunnels - but why not? :)


End file.
